Chapter
Twenty-Five
A ngelo
Balthazar’s obsidian claws closed around Serenity’s throat, each finger a brand of ice against her sun-kissed skin. The demon’s grip tightened with deliberate slowness, his sulfur-yellow eyes locked on mine as he savored my anguish. Serenity thrashed against him, her half-celestial strength making her movements blur with impossible speed. Her small fists hammered against his arms, each blow carrying enough force to shatter concrete, yet Balthazar didn’t even flinch.
My muscles strained against the invisible bonds of my nightmare, tendons standing out like cords in my neck. The familiar taste of helplessness flooded my mouth, bitter as centuries-old blood. Scream after scream built in my throat as I watched my mate die for what felt like the thousandth time. Each death carved new scars into my soul, yet this one felt as raw as the first.
Serenity’s eyes found mine—those ethereal blue eyes that had once looked upon me with such love now clouded with fear and something worse: forgiveness. Her face flushed crimson as oxygen fled her body, the color stark against her silvery hair. Those soft lips I had kissed countless times turned the color of bruised forget-me-nots. When her head lolled back, exposing the elegant curve of her throat, a whimper escaped me. Her body went slack in Balthazar’s grasp, her light dimming like a star going dark.
The demon’s laughter echoed through the darkness, a sound like breaking glass and crumbling graves. His claws retracted from her neck one by one, letting her body crumple to the ground like a discarded doll. The marks of his fingers stood out black against her skin—a collar of bruises that would fade just in time for the nightmare to begin again.
The nightmare began to dissolve like smoke in water, but the horror of watching Serenity die lingered in every cell of my body. A cloying wave of lily scent invaded my lungs, so intense it felt like drowning in perfume. My entire being screamed in agony, as though someone had taken steel wool to my soul and scoured away every layer until only raw nerves remained. The familiar pain in my back—my constant companion for what seemed like centuries—melted away as flesh and sinew knit themselves back together.
“Boss?” Enzo’s voice cut through the haze, thick with concern. It anchored me to reality like a lifeline thrown into churning waters.
My eyes snapped open, wild and unfocused. The phantom feel of Balthazar’s triumph still echoed in my bones, and Serenity’s last forgiving look burned behind my eyelids.
Grief, rage, and helplessness warred inside me, threatening to tear me apart. When I tried to push myself upright, my ancient muscles betrayed me, quivering like a newborn’s despite the immortal strength that usually coursed through them. Each tremor was a reminder of how powerless I’d been in my nightmare–how powerless I remained in reality while Balthazar held her captive.
Enzo’s arm slid around my back, solid and real compared to the phantom terrors still clinging to my mind. “Boss, can you stand?”
The world spun like a kaleidoscope of fractured images as I tried to orient myself. Bookcases swam into focus, their ancient spines a blur of leather and gilt. Glass jars caught what little light existed, their contents casting twisted shadows. Strange symbols crawled across the walls, their power humming just at the edge of my awareness. “Where—” My voice came out raw, as though I’d been screaming.
“You’re in the Nightshade Crypt,” Enzo said, his words heavy with unspoken worry. “We almost lost you again.” The again hit me like a stake to the heart—how many times had I slipped away while my people fought and died?
I pressed my fingers against the bridge of my nose, trying to force the fragmented memories into order. “The battle... the invisible demons...” Each word curdled in my mouth like sour milk.
“We won.” Something in Enzo’s tone made my dead heart clench—that particular inflection that meant victory had come at a terrible price.
Dread coiled in my gut like a serpent as I forced myself to ask, “How many did we lose?”
“As far as I can tell, half, including Dimitri.” The brutal truth hung in the air between us, and for a moment, I could see my sister’s face when I told her Dimitri had fallen. She would never forgive me.
“Maybe not.” A female voice caught my attention.
Rose Dragan held a bowl with an otherworldly smoke that twisted like living mercury, its ethereal tendrils reaching toward the ceiling. “This spell healed you,” she said, her eyes bright. “I think it might heal the others.” Hope threaded through her voice—precious and fragile in the aftermath of such devastation.
But magic couldn’t satisfy every need. The hunger clawed at my insides like a rabid beast, an all-consuming fire that threatened to burn away what little control I had left. My fangs ached, desperate for sustenance. “Enzo.” Just his name, but he understood immediately—centuries of loyalty contained in that single word.
Without hesitation, his fangs pierced his own wrist. The rich copper scent of his blood hit me like a physical force, making my throat constrict with need. I grabbed his offered arm, bringing it to my mouth with trembling hands. His blood—ancient and potent, though not as old as mine—flooded my senses. Each swallow was like drinking liquid strength, power flowing through my veins like burning starlight. The sweet, heady taste of immortality filled me, and I felt my body responding, healing, becoming whole again. My weakness ebbed away like a receding tide, replaced by the familiar thrum of supernatural strength.
I released Enzo’s wrist, giving him a grateful smile as his blood trickled warm and vital down my chin. The crack of my neck echoed through the crypt like breaking bones, a sound of preparation, of readiness. Serenity’s face flashed in my mind—not the nightmare version with blue-tinged lips and lifeless eyes, but her real smile, her strength. The thought of her ignited something primal in my chest, a fierce determination that burned hotter than my earlier hunger.
Trystan’s growl rippled through the air, low and threatening—a sound that would make mortal blood freeze in its veins. It resonated with my own predatory instincts, awakening centuries of hunting reflexes.
I moved to join him at the crypt’s entrance, every sense heightened and alert. The night air carried a thousand stories—wet earth, decaying leaves, the lingering copper tang of recent battle. My eyes cut through the darkness, searching the shadows between ancient headstones. A pair of crimson eyes met mine, burning like hot coals in the blackness before vanishing like smoke. My muscles tensed, ready for an attack, but something felt off.
This wasn’t Balthazar—there was no sulfurous stench of demon, no ashen residue that marked their presence. This was something else entirely, something that made my ancient blood run cold with recognition, though I couldn’t quite place why.
“What was it? Was it Balthazar?” Enzo came up alongside me.
“I don’t know what it was, but it wasn’t him. This felt different.”
Rose joined us, the mysterious bowl cradled in her hands like something precious and dangerous. The white smoke erupted from its depths, no longer passive but alive with purpose. It splintered into dozens of ethereal tendrils, each one seeking out the fallen with an almost sentient determination. The silvery wisps slithered across the blood-soaked ground, wrapping around broken bodies like ghostly bandages.
One by one, the wolf shifters began to respond. Their bodies jerked as if touched by lightning, muscles spasming under the smoke’s influence. Vacant eyes suddenly sparked with awareness, glazed expressions sharpening into focus. Limbs that had been still and lifeless began to twitch and move. The night air filled with a symphony of pain and revival—groans of returning consciousness, confused whimpers, the rustle of bodies stirring back to life.
But Dimitri remained still.
I drew on vampire speed and hurried over to him. Dimitri lay completely still, his normally pale skin now an ashen gray. Dark veins spread outward from the wound like cracks in marble. The hellish blade had left more than just a physical injury—the edges of the wound glowed with a sickly crimson light and the flesh around it seemed to be decaying before my eyes. No breath stirred his chest, no movement betrayed any sign of life. Only the fact that he hadn’t yet turned to ash told me he still clung to existence. Blood, darker than it should be, had pooled beneath him, the scent wrong—sulfurous and tainted, nothing like the usual metallic sweetness of vampire blood.
The smoke circled him like a frustrated spirit, weaving and diving as if searching for a way in. But unlike the others, there was no response—no sudden gasp, no return of color to his ashen face. Something cold and heavy settled in my chest as I watched the healing tendrils try and fail to spark life back into Gianna’s mate. The magic that had saved so many others seemed to mock us now, dancing over Dimitri’s form without effect, as if highlighting the finality of his death.
I ripped into my own wrist with my fangs, feeling flesh and vessels tear. Blood—ancient and powerful, the blood of a vampire who had walked the earth for millennia—welled up, dark and thick. I pressed my bleeding wrist against Dimitri’s cold lips, hoping it would be enough to save him for Gianna’s sake. My compulsion, a power as old as my bloodline, surged through my voice. “Drink, Dimitri.”
“Angelo, wait!” Enzo rushed to my side. His hand gripped my shoulder, heavy with concern. “You’re not strong enough.” The worry in his tone spoke of too many close calls, too many times he’d watched me push myself to the brink.
But I felt it then—the faintest response. Dimitri’s tongue, barely warmer than a corpse’s, brushed against my wound. Each weak pull at my blood felt like triumph and agony combined. His drinking was shallow, tentative, as if even this small effort cost him everything. But he was drinking. He was fighting.
“Fight for Gianna.” My sister’s name resonated with a force beyond any compulsion—the power of family, of love, of everything worth surviving for. The moment her name left my lips, something sparked in Dimitri. His drinking transformed from desperate survival to fierce determination. Each pull at my wrist grew stronger, more demanding, like a man lost in the desert who had finally found an oasis.
I could feel his strength returning with every swallow of my ancient blood, could sense the death grip of mortality loosening its hold on him. In his desperate feeding, I felt echoes of his love for Gianna—the force that had melted centuries of ice around his heart, that had bound him to our family with ties stronger than blood or loyalty alone.
The white smoke seemed to respond to her name, twisting with renewed purpose as it slipped up his nostrils like ethereal serpents. Dimitri’s pull at my wrist transformed—no longer the weak sips of the dying, but deep, hungry draws that spoke of life returning. Then his eyelids suddenly lifted, revealing dark irises burning with awareness and an ancient predator’s hunger. I pulled my wrist away before he could take too much, relief flooding through me as I watched color return to his face.
“Trying to get rid of me already?” Dimitri’s voice came out rough, but that insufferable look of amused defiance returned to his features as color flooded back into his face. “Sorry to disappoint, brother, but you’re stuck with me. Someone has to keep this family entertaining.” Despite his casual words, the way his eyes flickered with concern told me he knew exactly how close he’d come to true death—and exactly what it would have done to Gianna.
Enzo’s hand clasped my shoulder with the firm certainty of a soldier who’d seen worse battles. “Now what?” His voice was clipped, ready for orders.
I met his unwavering gaze, centuries of trust passing between us. “Tell me you found something in the crypt to heal Dracula.” I wiped Dimitri’s blood from my hands onto my already ruined clothes, the evidence of our desperate healing attempt a stark reminder of what was at stake.
“We did—an amulet.” He squared his shoulders, the news delivered with the same efficiency he’d used to report family business. “It expels demons.”
“Then that’s our next move.” My entire body hummed with anticipation, every vampire instinct focused on the hunt to come.
Serenity’s presence haunted my senses—the phantom taste of her lips sweet on my tongue, the memory of her skin under my fingers, the sound of her heartbeat that had become my own personal symphony. Soon. So soon now. The thought of her trapped with Balthazar made my fangs ache with rage, but for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt the tide turning. We had a weapon. We had a chance. And I had centuries of violence at my disposal to make Balthazar regret ever touching what was mine.
Table of Contents
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- Page 25 (Reading here)
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